


i am cautious that i don't start a fire

by vavafroome (spaceboy_niko)



Category: Cycling RPF
Genre: Male Solo, Masturbation, i literally cannot include any more tags that's all this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29075217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceboy_niko/pseuds/vavafroome
Summary: there's always a remedy for sleeplessness.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	i am cautious that i don't start a fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magliarosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magliarosa/gifts), [CelestineAzure87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestineAzure87/gifts).



> i missed george on this week's poddy so here is short n sweet george appreciation. come back george :(
> 
> as always for magliarosa but this is also for celestineazure87 because i broke discord and it ate what i believe was a friend request from you so consider this an apology for my tech incompetence
> 
> title is from hyperfine by g flip because i listened to it on loop while writing this and i love her <3

George can’t sleep.

It’s his first night in this hotel, and everything is wrong. The curtains are too thin, the light’s too bright, he’s too hot, too cold, distinctly uncomfortable no matter which way he rolls over. He glances at the clock, tries to make the little red lines congeal into numbers, but whatever time it is, it’s far too late for him to be awake.

Inhale, count to three. Hold, count to five. Exhale, count to seven. Inhale, hold, exhale, inhale, hold, exhale. Fuck.

He lies with his eyes open, staring into the murky dark, trying to let the shapes of the minimal hotel furniture assimilate back into formless shadow, but his mind is still running with thoughts that start with nothing and end nowhere.

He rolls over onto his stomach and stretches through his back in an attempt at comfort. He’s thankful he’s not sharing a room with anyone tonight, because the bed creaks and the stretches the physiotherapist recommends are weirdly provocative - tilting his hips forwards, backwards, trying for a twist, kneeling up and folding as far forward as he can, before relaxing back down again with a  _ whump _ of the duvet over him.

George rolls onto his back again, still dissatisfied, and sighs into the quiet room before settling on a last resort. The hotel room walls are thin, but at least this is an option - if he’d had a roommate tonight, he would’ve been left lying awake, stewing in his sleeplessness.

The elastic waistband of his pyjamas doesn't have the same stretch it used to, sitting loose around his hips as he slides his hand under the fabric. He's not hard, not yet, but wraps his fingers around his cock anyway and lets his mind wander as he fumbles in the bedside drawer for lube.

Porn is off the cards tonight, but there are always the fallback scenarios - the time he was jerked off in a bathroom at a house party by a girl whose name he doesn't remember, drunk and hazy; the backseat hookup with a rugby player on one of his infrequent trips home - and they work, combined with his sleep-clumsy touches, pulse beating under his fingertips. He pulls down his waistband with his other hand, drips lube over his fingers and readjusts his grip. He’s stiff and warm against his palm, but he doesn’t really want to think about it - this is more out of necessity than anything.

George is too tired to construct any sort of elaborate fantasy for himself tonight, just closes his eyes and settles into a rhythm.

He starts slow - pulls down, slides up, drags his fingers through the building wet at the tip, going through the motions mechanically before settling into the pace he likes.

George constrains himself to sighs, trying to be quiet - he doesn’t remember or care who’s next door to him, but he doesn’t think whoever it is would care to hear him fucking his own hand enthusiastically.

He starts to think that maybe he was a bit too generous with the lube, feeling it drip down to the base of his cock and his balls, and slides his slick hand down to gather it again, fingertips skidding into the space between. He dallies with the idea, spreads his legs a little wider, takes his cock in his other hand, and presses a slippery fingertip to his hole. As always, he’s methodical, working the one finger in slowly, waiting until he’s comfortable to move.

Trying to coordinate both hands to move at the same pace, to the same beat, is harder than George expected, but he gives it a damn good shot anyway. He tries not to focus on one more than the other, but the angle of the hand inside him isn’t quite right, so he pulls back to where it’s comfortable and works with what’s left. He moves his finger neither deep nor hard nor fast, just a tease, as he concentrates more on pumping his shaft in that indulgent rhythm.

If this were happening by someone else’s hand, this is the point where he’d relax into it and pull less of the weight, but tonight he’s only got himself to disappoint, and so he’s painfully aware of how close he is and how far yet he still has to bring himself.

He’s so hard and so wet, precome pooling in the V of his thumb and forefinger, that if anyone else saw him right now, he’d be embarrassed. The thought of a teammate or, hell, even Grischa, bursting in on him like this despite the late hour - spread out for his own hand, cock stiff and red and aching, chest flushed and teeth digging into bottom lip to muffle sound - makes him shiver and bite down harder.

The tightness in his abdomen is almost unbearable now, his breathing shallow and loud in the empty room, and he reflexively lets himself buck into his touch, fucking his hand like it’s not his own. He lets himself be sloppy, hell-bent on coming, feels himself being drawn tighter tighter tighter tighter-

The orgasm itself isn’t quite as satisfying as he’d hoped, but he still lets out a groan as he comes over his hand and stomach, not caring if he’s heard. He lies there for a minute, savouring the feeling, waiting for his heart rate to come down and his blood to stop thumping in his ears before gingerly sliding his finger out. He fumbles on the nightstand for the tissues he knows are there, but he can’t quite reach the box, only brushing it with wet fingers, so he makes do with his pyjamas, kicking them off, wiping his body and hands down, and dropping them to the floor.

He lies back and hopes for sleep to take him, eyes closed, body relaxed at last, but he’s still awake in the dark. His mind is quieter now, and he tries to steady his breathing again. Inhale, count to three. Hold, count to five. Exhale, count to seven.

Fuck.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [And I haven't said a thing, keep the record playing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29108457) by [CelestineAzure87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestineAzure87/pseuds/CelestineAzure87)




End file.
